But now…
Now there’s a kid who needs someone. Needs me.
And somehow, my life doesn’t revolve entirely around work.
It’s unfamiliar.
A little terrifying.
But also?—
Maybe not bad.
“Can I ask you something?” Colton suddenly says.
I nod, wary but curious.
“Do you still think a lot about high school? About... what happened?”
The question lands like a stone in still water. Of course, I think about it. Those memories shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. Hardened me into someone determined never to be vulnerable in front of others again.
“Sometimes,” I admit.
“I was terrible to you,” he says, no qualification, no excuses. Just simple acknowledgment.
I look down at my hands. “Yes, you were.”
“I didn’t understand half of what I was saying back then. My English was so bad.” He shakes his head. “Not that it’s an excuse. I repeated what the others said, wanting to be more than just a foreigner. I just... I was lost too.”
“We were kids,” I finally say, though the words feel weird. I hated him for such a long, long time. Each time I saw his ads, those big stupid pictures of him in the subway or in front of the stadium, in the city. I was so full of hatred and now… it all kind of vanished into thin air.
“Kids can be cruel,” he agrees. “But what I did... the names, not helping you... I think about it more than you know.”
I look up, surprised by the raw regret in his voice.
“After Livy was born,” he continues, “I started thinking about what I would do if someone treated her the way my former team treated all those kids. And I couldn’t stomach it.” He meets my gaze directly. “I’m sorry, Jenna. Truly sorry. I should have noticed.”
His apology lingers between us. Part of me wants to brush it off, keep things distant and professional like I always do. Butthere’s another part of me—the quieter one, the one that still remembers—that doesn’t want to ignore it.
“Thank you for saying that,” I say.
Somehow, during our conversation, the space between us has diminished. I don’t remember either of us moving, yet we’re closer now, and this time I didn’t move back. And that’s when I notice details I’ve been trying not to see. The faint scar along his jawline from an old injury perhaps, the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the way his expression has softened from when we first reconnected.
“You’re different than I expected,” he says quietly.
“So are you,” I admit.
His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment, but long enough for me to notice. Long enough for heat to curl low in my stomach. The air between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with possibility.
I don’t move away. I should, but I don’t.
Colton leans forward slightly, his breathing shallow. I can smell his soap—something clean and faintly woodsy and beneath that, something uniquely him. My pulse quickens. This is monumentally stupid. He’s my client. He’s Colton King, for God’s sake. Our situation is already complicated enough.
And yet I still don’t move.
We’re close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough that it would take almost nothing to close the distance.
Then, abruptly, he pulls back. Blinks rapidly, like someone coming out of a trance.
